Wedged in the middle of a block on Elm Street, Picot’s Voodoo Shop occupies the ground level of a two story stone building. Two long bay windows filled with exotic plants flank a set of four stairs that lead down to the shop’s door. Inside visitors are greeted by the sweet spicy smell of incense, shelves filled with books on various esoteric subjects, and large upholstered antique chairs. Tribal masks, parchments, and animal hides from around the world adorn the walls. At the very back of the shop there is a a long carved ebony desk before a large red leather chair, which is where the owner, Mr. Picot, is usually seated. Customers come here to buy books, and parafanalia related to magic and voodoo, and also have the option of having their prescriptions filled by unconventional means.
Mr. Dashiell Dempsy Picot stood in front of his handsome new shop on Elm Street. He gazed up at the shop’s black lacquered sign with large gold leaf letters that read, “Picot’s Voodoo Shop” and gave a snort of approval. A gentle breeze ruffled the snow white hair on the crown of his head as he took long meditative drags of his cigarillo.
This southern gentleman had traveled the world studying under monks, shaman, priests, medicine men, and others to learn about alternative healing techniques, witchcraft, and voodoo. At the age of sixty, Mr. Picot decided to move to Bayfield from abroad. He thought opening this shop would put his knowledge of these subjects to some use. He had decided to use his building’s second floor as his living area, and would run his business from the main level.
Mr. Picot descended the four stairs leading to the shop’s front door and tied a glass eye to the fox door knocker’s mouth.
“There. For security.” said Dashiell as he entered his shop. “Those with ill intentions can’t turn the handle.” He paused, furrowed his brow, and withdrew a vile of salt from his pant pocket, and poured a small line of it next to the threshold of the door and along the sill of both windows. “Just to be sure.”, he said under his breath. Dashiell considered himself a logical, and educated man, but embedded in him was a superstitious side that he couldn’t ignore. His upbringing in New Orleans had taught him to fear malevolent unseen beings, and though he had never encountered anything like a ghost or demon, he liked to perform protective charms just in case.
Dashiell seated himself at his desk at the back of his shop, and turned on his emerald green desk lamp. Behind him is a massive aquarium filled with anemones, coral, and a wide selection bleached white deep sea fish. The aquarium stretches from floor to ceiling (about 11 ft.), but is only a few feet wide and wraps around a doorway that leads to his apartment on the second floor. The water is a deep indigo blue and casts a fluttering blue light over Dashiell's desk and the hardwood beyond, where it mingles with the golden light from the chandeliers. Dashiell had a flare for the dramatic, and spared no expense in attaining it. Dashiell was cataloging the last of his dried goods which he kept in small, square drawers lining the walls behind either side of his desk. Like the aquarium, the drawers stretched from floor to ceiling. In them, Dashiell kept everything from dried alfalfa, to salamanders, bird wings, and mummified fingers and toes. Every drawer has a different handle, which is how Dashiell identifies them in his catalogue. Dashiell keeps the ingredients in the drawers behind his desk to keep them out of customers reach. Some of the goods are too potent, poisonous or potentially harmful to be handled by amateurs, and Dashiell didn’t like the idea of people riffling through delicate items.
Dashiel wrote quietly at his desk as he lit another cigarillo. A ‘no smoking’ sign hung ignored on the wall beyond his desk.
